“This is Eric Parker,” he said to one of the doormen on duty. “I’m expecting friends. No need to call me when they arrive. Just send them up to Diana Crane’s apartment.”
He put down the phone, removed the files from Diana’s briefcase and substituted them for the files he had seen in the drawers to his right. The folders were an identical deep green. He snapped the briefcase shut and put it back as he had found it. By the time Diana realized the switch, Eric hoped to be somewhere in Europe, perhaps Switzerland, with the money Louis Ryan owed him.
He tucked the folders beneath his arm and reached for his crutches. No sooner had he left the room and tackled the winding staircase that he heard someone ringing the doorbell.
He hesitated, wondering if Ryan had believed his bluff. He knew there was a chance that he might open that door and take a series of bullets in the chest.
It was a risk he’d have to take.
He went to the door and looked through the peephole. Standing in the hallway was a tall, rugged-looking man in his early thirties with tousled dark hair. He was wearing an unseasonably warm black leather jacket. His hands were cupped behind his back.
Eric wished the man’s hands weren’t concealed, but he opened the door anyway.
They stared at each other.
The man in the hallway looked at the folders beneath Eric’s arm, then at the cast on his leg, the bruises on his face. The edge of his mouth lifted into a smile.
Eric held out a hand for the check.
The man’s smile faded. He reached into his jacket pocket, removed the check and handed it to Eric. “Give me the files,” he said.
Eric unfolded the check and saw that the amount had indeed been tripled. Relief overcame him.
He gave the man the files and closed the door in his face, locking it quickly.
It was over.
He pressed his back against the door as elation swept through him.
He was now worth ninety million dollars.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Diana moved quickly down the hallway, perhaps too quickly given the crisis she was leaving, because all eyes were on her as she hurried toward the bank of elevators.
Why was Eric on her computer? What was he hoping to find? Was he just bored and using it to see how things were working out with the deals he left behind when George fired him? Or were there other reasons?
She was about to reach the elevators when someone behind her called out her name. She turned and saw Jack Douglas. He was standing just outside his office. On his face was a look of concern and curiosity.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She needed to get out of there.
“I’m fine.” She pressed a button on the elevator.
“No, you’re not,” he said, coming toward her. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”
“It’s really nothing—
“What is it?”
She looked at him. Tall and muscular, his body as rugged as steel. Regardless of what Eric was up to, she decided having someone like Jack accompany her to her apartment might be a good idea. She motioned him over.
“Will this remain between us?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I’m depending on that,” she said, and so she took the risk. “Eric Parker is staying with me. I just learned he’s on my computer, which is connected to Redman International’s main database and which obviously has created a major security breach since Eric no longer works here.”
The doors to the elevator whisked open.
“I don’t know what he’s doing,” she said. “But he received no permission from me to use that computer. I’m concerned.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
She nodded and they stepped inside. “This is going to sound stupid,” she said. “But do you have access to a gun?”
The question surprised him. “No,” he said. “But why would I need a gun?”
Diana pressed a button and looked at him as the elevator dropped. “Because if he’s doing what I think he’s doing, we might need it and the police.”
* * *
For Eric Parker, there was only escape.
He left the door and went to gather his things. On a table, he placed the check next to his watch and wallet and then he went to the staircase—that fucking winding staircase—and started to climb the stairs that led to the guest bedroom Diana offered him.
It was a struggle to reach the top, but he made it and went to the bedroom, where he grabbed a duffel bag and started tossing clothes into it.
He didn’t need everything, just enough to get him on a plane and out of the country. In the bathroom, he took only what was necessary. In his briefcase, he checked to make sure his passport was there. He went back to the bedroom and picked up the phone. He called his travel agent and ordered a first class ticket to Switzerland. A flight was leaving in two hours. The e-ticket would be waiting for him at the ticket counter.
Perfect.
He dialed the front desk. “It’s Eric Parker. Would you hail a cab for me? I’ll be down in 10 minutes.”
As he replaced the receiver, he heard a door open and click shut. It came from downstairs. A rush of panic shot through him, but he stilled it.
She was home.
Eric thought about how he would handle this and decided there was only one way. Get out of this bedroom, get down the stairs and face her.
He was leaving. She didn’t have to know where he was going. By the time he got to the airport, she’d likely learn that he’d gotten into her computer. But at that point, it wouldn’t matter—he’d be well on his way to a country that would protect him.
He snatched his duffel bag, tossed it over his shoulder and grabbed his crutches. This wouldn’t go well, but he’d keep it brief. He was out of there.
He went to the bedroom door, opened it and took a step back.
Standing just beyond the door wasn’t Diana. It was Mario De Cicco and with him were two men, each holding guns now pointed at Eric’s face.
* * *
De Cicco moved into the room with such force, Eric staggered back. His cast caught on the floor, he nearly fell, but he reached for a chair and righted himself so he wouldn’t go down.
De Cicco glanced at the duffle bag. “Going somewhere?”
Eric said nothing. He noticed that De Cicco and his men were wearing gloves. On their feet were paper booties that covered their shoes. He felt a rush of fear and knew why they were here. They were going to kill him.
“Answer the question, Eric. Are you going somewhere?”
“I’m going back to my apartment. What the fuck is it with you?”
“When you put out a contract on Leana Redman, it means everything to me.” He moved toward Eric, knowing this needed to be brief.
“How did you get up here?” Eric said.
“They let us in. Apparently, you were expecting friends. We just breezed through, so thanks for that.” He moved closer to him. “Beating Leana Redman was your first mistake, Eric. Taking out that contract was your final mistake.” He stepped aside. “Walk through the door.”
“Fuck you.”
One of De Cicco’s men lifted his gun and pointed it at Eric’s head.
“This can go one of two ways, Eric,” Mario said. “You can go through that door by yourself or you can have me drag your ass through it by your broken leg. Your choice. One will be less painful. Now choose.”
There was no choice. He let go of the chair, grabbed his crutches and started moving past De Cicco to the door. What De Cicco didn’t know is that just beyond that door was a desk. On top of it was an iron statue of a woman. It was about eighteen inches tall and just heavy enough to do serious damage to a skull.
If he timed this right, if he grabbed the statue, swung it at De Cicco’s head and shut the door before the others could follow, he might have a chance to get to Diana’s room, lock the door, go to her bathroom, lock that door and call security for help.
He knew
it was a long shot, but it was all he had.
* * *
At Redman International, Jack and Diana left the building, flagged a cab, got one on their fifth try and told the driver to take them to Redman Place.
“There’s a hundred dollars in it for you if you hurry,” Diana said. She opened her handbag, removed the money and dropped it on the driver’s front seat. “It’s an emergency.”
The driver stepped on it, but traffic on Fifth was thick. He tried to maneuver through the clogged thoroughfare, but it was difficult and there wasn’t much he could do. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “But this is bullshit. Look at these assholes. They don’t know how to drive.”
“Just try,” Diana said. She looked at Jack. “We might be too late.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know Eric.”
The driver found an opening and raced through it. Redman Place was a five-minute drive. If this man was aggressive enough, they could be there in three.
* * *
“Let’s go, Eric. If you don’t step it up, I’ll help.”
Eric looked at De Cicco as he passed him. He focused all of his concentration on what was beyond that door and where the statue was on the desk. It would be to the far right. He would need to drop a crutch, grab the statue and then turn to swing it.
He moved through the door, shot a sideways glance and saw it sitting there.
And everything slowed.
He dropped the crutch under his right armpit, leaned in to reach for the statue and grabbed it. He turn to swing it so he could bash in the side of De Cicco’s head but instead he was being propelled forward. Somebody had shoved him. He sailed through the air and crashed onto the floor. His head struck wood and for a moment, he blacked out.
He was being shaken.
He opened his eyes and saw De Cicco leaning over him. “Get up.”
His eyes fluttered and he saw movement across the room. One of the men was carefully putting the statue back in place with his gloved hands.
“Get up.”
He made an effort to move, but a searing pain shot through his shoulder, which was dislocated. De Cicco saw the problem, grabbed Eric by the shirt and easily picked him up so he was standing.
Eric’s shoulder was drooping. The pain was unbearable. He was about to shout when one of De Cicco’s men came behind him and covered his mouth with a hand.
“You can live or you can die,” Mario said. “Your choice. To live, you need to tell me who you called to put the contract on Leana.”
Without hesitation, Eric jerked his head away to free his mouth and blurted out the person’s name.
Without hesitation, Mario De Cicco grabbed Eric again and lifted him to the top of the staircase. And right there, on Eric’s face, was the shock of what was about to happen to him. He tried to struggle, tried to get this man off him, but it was useless. De Cicco leaned close to Eric’s ear. “You fucked with the wrong person. Nobody touches Leana Redman. When they do, just look at what happens.”
* * *
The cab swung in front of Redman Place. Eric and Diana rushed out. She tossed another hundred through the passenger’s side window, thanked the driver and ran with Eric to the revolving doors.
Across the lobby was the bank of elevators. They hurried toward them, pressed the button and waited for one of the doors to open.
* * *
“You told me you’d let me live!” Eric shouted.
“I lied,” De Cicco said. “Ain’t that a bitch?”
“Here’s your bitch,” Eric said. “It’s Leana Fucking Redman. Tell her for me that she can burn in hell. Tell her for me that she can—”
But before Eric could finish speaking, De Cicco pushed him down the winding staircase.
Mario and his men moved forward to watch him fall. They watched his body twist and bend in unnatural angles as he toppled down the staircase, they watched his cast catch on a rung and snap it in half, and they watched what happened when he suddenly flipped over and his neck came down hard on the banister.
It wasn’t the wood that cracked—the banister could sustain the impact. Instead, it was the bones in Eric’s neck that cracked and the sound they made was like wood splintering in the room. As Eric Parker continued to fall, the men noted the difference in how he fell. He now was a rag doll. As he fell to the bottom of the steps, there was no life in him—just momentum behind him. He was dead and lying in a growing pool of his own blood by the time he hit the floor.
“Let’s move,” De Cicco said.
The men hurried down the stairs, Mario placed a gloved finger on Eric Parker’s neck, felt no pulse and joined his men as they checked the room to make certain no trace of themselves was there. They were backing out of the room and looking for any signs of a struggle when Mario brushed against a side table. He looked down and saw Parker’s watch and wallet, and what looked to be a check.
He lifted the check, read the amount, looked at the name of the corporation listed on it and then looked back in surprise at Parker. What was World Enterprises? Who was behind it? Why had they paid Parker $90 million? What had he done to earn it?
Mario pocketed the check. Since there was no asking Eric Parker now, they left the room, found the stairs and began rushing down them just as an elevator door whisked open. De Cicco and his men were three floors down when they heard a woman, her voice high and shrill, call out Eric’s name.
They hesitated.
And then they fled down the stairs when she began screaming.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Carving a path in the evening sky, the plane soared over the Atlantic, hurtling towards New York and JFK.
Michael unbuckled his safety belt, reached for Leana’s hand and squeezed it gently. She had been silent ever since they left Heathrow and he could sense her slowly withdrawing into that part of herself that no one could hurt. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
As he left his seat and walked towards the rear of the plane, the quiet rage that had been building within him since they left Monte Carlo finally struck. He knew his father was behind this, knew that it was he who had Celina Redman murdered. He probably used Spocatti, he thought. Probably got that son of a bitch to do it for him…
The stewardess smiled as he approached.
“Where are the phones?” Michael asked.
The woman motioned toward an area just outside the restrooms. “They’re there, Mr. Archer.”
He thanked the woman, moved in their direction and swayed slightly when the plane hit a pocket of turbulence. An older woman with a shock of blonde hair grabbed his arm as he passed her seat. “You’re Michael Archer,” she said.
Michael released his arm, aware that other passengers were now looking at him. Recognizing him. “No,” he said. “I’m not. But it happens all the time. I’m flattered.” And he moved on, ignoring the woman even as she said to the man seated beside her: “I could have sworn….”
He picked up one of the telephones, swiped his credit card and dialed. While he waited for the connection to go through, he thought back to earlier that evening: Leana picking up the phone, hearing the conversation with his father, and how he quickly severed the connection when Louis took a breath. Leana stepping into the bathroom, watching him while he showered.
At the time, Michael thought that if he ignored her, that if he just washed himself and acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary, she would doubt what she heard on the phone and think perhaps the lines somehow got crossed in the storm. But what if she didn’t think she heard someone else’s conversation, not his? What if she recognized his father’s voice and was just staying with him until she could safely escape? Since his life was at stake, the implications unnerved him.
Finally, the line was answered by a woman. “Manhattan Enterprises.”
“Judy, it’s Michael. Is my father in?”
“He’s in a conference, Michael.”
“Please tell him I’m on the line. I’m calling from a plane. It’
s urgent.”
There was a sigh, a click and the abrupt sound of Muzak. Michael closed his eyes and felt the familiar knot tightening in his stomach. His life was out of control. Yesterday morning he shot and killed a man in his apartment after the man burned his manuscript. The police obviously were looking into that now, asking questions, following leads.
His father told him earlier that they found the charred bodies in his apartment and the Iranian cab driver dumped in an alley one block away. Although Michael rented the apartment under an assumed name, he knew that sooner or later the police would learn it was his apartment the bodies were found in.
He was famous. Although his apartment was surrounded by people whose reality was altered by drugs, certainly somebody had recognized him during the three weeks he’d lived there.
But I can help you, Louis said. Kill Redman and the police will never know that apartment was yours.
Although his father never said this, Michael knew the opposite also was true: If you don’t kill Redman, every cop in the world will be after your ass. As will Santiago.
It was an endless cycle that offered no escape. Michael wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going, how much longer he could keep up with the facade.
His father answered the line. “What is it, Michael?”
“We need to talk.”
“That isn’t possible right now.”
“Not good enough,” Michael said. “We need to talk. Now.”
“And I said it isn’t possible.”
“Who are you with?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Fine,” Michael said. “Then answer this for me and you can get back to your meeting—why did you have to kill her sister?”
“I’m not discussing this with you now. Call me when you arrive in New York.”
The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set Page 30
